


The Worst (Best) Days

by Curupia



Series: ZsaszMask drabbles [3]
Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bottom Roman Sionis, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, D/s themes, Dirty Talk, Knife Play, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PWP, Rough Sex, Top Victor Zsasz, Victor is a romantic, in a serial killer kind of way, kind of, more poetic description than is really necessary, pain play, talk of switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curupia/pseuds/Curupia
Summary: Scraping blunt nails across Roman’s scalp, he slid his hand further south, taking every opportunity to scratch and pinch and squeeze each sensitive spot he’d painstakingly discovered over the years. Roman’s reactions were silent, but by no means subdued. His body squirmed under Victor’s ministrations, singing like the well-worn strings of a cherished instrument, and Victor the practiced musician.------------Or, Roman is having a bad day; Victor takes it upon himself to cheer up his boss.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Series: ZsaszMask drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685887
Comments: 15
Kudos: 276





	The Worst (Best) Days

**Author's Note:**

> Working title - I'm open to better suggestions, not sure I love this one. 
> 
> So this was supposed to be a short pwp, no more than 1500 words...  
> Yeah... that obviously didn't happen. This got a whole lot more detailed and poetic and mushy and murdery than I was anticipating. What can I say? Murder Husbands are my thing. 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! I live for kudos and comments!!!!! :D

Bad days came in a variety. Some meant a short temper and were countered with pain. Some meant unfocused energy bouncing around, finding an often destructive, maniacal focus before shifting somewhere else. Those days were more dangerous than the former because that maniacal focus was often directed inwards, to Roman’s closest crew, whereas his temper could be quelled by violence against any poor soul who dared to cross his path – and those who knew him made sure it wasn’t them.

The days Roman hated the worst though were the ones that Victor liked the best. Those days when Roman woke up despondent and moody; an anger simmering under his skin that had no cause or target. When just getting out of bed felt like a chore and putting on a face for his loyal minions an almost insurmountable task. Nothing seemed to cheer him up – no amount of bloodshed or deal making or shows of power. If he had to go out, he ran on autopilot, barely speaking apart from barking orders at his subordinates. There were no laughs, no dancing, no light behind the cold eyes. That wasn’t what Victor liked about those days though.

No.

He rather enjoyed making his boss smile wide with satisfaction of a job well done, handing over a peeled face to the gloved grip and watching those eyes brighten with delight, or delivering a piece of news that made Roman’s body move to a song that existed only in his own head. Those moments were definitely some of Victor’s favorites, but what he liked about the worst days was that only _he_ was trusted enough to make them better.

It had taken a while for him to figure out exactly how to read Roman, interpret the silences for the questions they were, and it was longer still before he’d figured out how to answer those questions correctly, without incurring Roman’s wrath and making the situation worse. By now though, he was well versed in the language of Roman Sionis; every silent gesture, every glance, every word spoken underneath and in between a dozen others, every plea he asked without ever asking. So when he went to make sure the boss was awake and found him sitting up in bed, staring out the window with a look that told Victor that whatever Roman was watching wasn’t outside, Victor immediately closed and locked the door. Finding Roman’s phone laying neglected on the bedspread, he typed in the four-digit passcode – the only other person in the world with that level of access to Sionis’s private property – and sent out a message to the crew that he not be disturbed for the remainder of the day. Perks of being the boss – no one dared question why, because if they did, Victor would make sure they’d never be able to ask another question again.

That being taken care of, Victor tossed the phone on the table next to the bed and sat down behind Roman and sliding his shoes off before pulling his legs up to stretch out next to the other man, bracketing Roman’s thighs with his own. Roman liked to saunter around in matching embroidered silk pajamas, but when it came to actually sleeping, he couldn’t stand the feeling of so much clothing. The clinging fabric suffocated him, too hot, too soft, too _much_. A torso bare of everything but a thin, black, plain old cotton tank top sat in front of Victor, artificially still – a faked nonchalance he could see right through.

Roman wouldn’t be the one to initiate it.

Most days, Roman Sionis took what he wanted without thought of right or consequence. He was the boss – everything on this side of Gotham belonged to him and if anyone needed reminding of that, well, he just _loved_ to send a message.

But on the worst days, Roman couldn’t take what he _needed,_ because what he needed had to be freely given. Sure, he could scare people into loyalty, buy their companionship and hire their protection, but he couldn’t make them _want_ to be with him because they _liked_ him. His own family hadn’t even wanted him, and they were his blood! It was supposed to be a basic requirement.

No. Roman might like to ignore the fact that everyone around him wore fake smiles and filled their mouths with false compliments, falling over themselves to please him out of fear of losing their pretty faces to Victor’s knife, but he wasn’t oblivious to it. He loved it, in fact. On most days, it thrilled him to be surrounded by so much fear and pandering. He filled his belly with their anxiety, sated on their dread. It was better than the purest drug in his veins, a high he chased like no other.

But on the worst days, none of that mattered. Reality warped, twisted upon itself until he no longer felt confident in who he was or why he was doing any of this to begin with. He felt hollow and hungry – starving for something he couldn’t put a name to, a need he couldn’t articulate.

Victor didn’t need him to spell it out though; he’d always been good at reading between the lines.

Slowly, as if dealing with a skittish creature, Victor reached out, settling his hands on the smooth shoulders in front of him. They were cold – Roman must’ve been sitting up for a while – and his touch produced a prickling of goosebumps from shoulder to wrist. He felt Roman tense and then relax into his hands as he moved them slowly down, across the prominent shoulder blades, thumbs pressing gently into either side of his spine. Roman made no response, other than to continue relaxing into the warm pressure. Victor knew by now not to take offense. For all the noise and boisterousness that Roman typically exuded, the worst days often started non-verbal. For Roman, that is. On Victor’s part, he was allowed, even encouraged, to speak freely. The talking kept Roman from wandering off too deep into his own head.

One hand slid up and over Roman’s shoulder, taking it’s time caressing the soft skin of his throat before moving to cover his mouth in a firm grip; a charade of implied power, an expectation of silence and an absolution from the responsibility to respond.

Roman strained against the hold, just to feel the fingers tighten around his jaw. The movement slid his hand out of place, causing his first two fingers to catch on Roman’s bottom lip. He had a way of getting his demands across even without words, and Victor would never – _could never –_ deny him what was in his power to give. He pulled against the lip, squeezing tight with his thumb until the mouth opened just slightly – just enough to push his fingers inside.

“Good, so good for me.” He breathed the words hot against Roman’s neck, as the mouth around him sucked hard, teeth scraping against knuckles. “Close your eyes.” The order was redundant, but necessary. Roman already had his eyes closed – had been struggling to keep them open and focused since Victor had sat down. The words were merely a formality: permission not to put on a show, one less thing to concentrate on, one less mask to wear.

They had the intended effect.

They body under his hands went lax and pliable, his to mold and maneuver as he saw fit. His free hand went to Roman’s hair – always so perfectly styled, this morning messy and unkempt – threading his fingers through and pulling just this side of painful until the other man’s head rested comfortably against his scarred shoulder. The sharp intake of breath was as good and pornographic as a scream on days like this.

Scraping blunt nails across Roman’s scalp, he slid his hand further south, taking every opportunity to scratch and pinch and squeeze each sensitive spot he’d painstakingly discovered over the years. Roman’s reactions were silent, but by no means subdued. His body squirmed under Victor’s ministrations, singing like the well-worn strings of a cherished instrument, and Victor the practiced musician.

He knew where to place gentle, feather-light touches, and where to press the bruises in; where to linger and where to avoid; knew how to pull out the responses he wanted with a broad swipe of his tongue or the blunt edge of his teeth. He took his time. Like pain, pleasure was a sensation meant to be savored, not rushed. Hands that peeled away faces took equal pleasure in taking apart Roman Sionis inch by agonizing inch until all that remained was raw and open like a nerve, ready to be set alight with the smallest of touches.

He worked his hand under the cotton shirt, tracing the line of Roman’s collarbone, pressing into the dip of his throat, leaving behind pink lines of pressure in an abstract design across his chest. There was something tantalizing about leaving him clothed, hiking the shirt up to his armpits but no farther, like he couldn’t bear to waste the time stripping them when there was so much else to do.

He followed the trail of dark hair down, down until Roman was squirming against him from the tease, clutching Victor’s forearm and trying in vain to push it lower.

“Tsk, tsk. You’ll get what you want when I’m ready, not a minute before. Understand?” Roman whined and changed tactics, grinding his ass against Victor, arching his back and spreading his legs further apart – wanton and needy. A delicious display of desperation and Victor feasted upon it. “You do understand,” he laughed, low and deep, into Roman’s ear, biting down hard enough to leave an impression. “Good.”

He traced the outline of Roman’s cock through the fabric of his pants, one thin layer of cotton between them. The heat of it against his palm pulled a moan from Victor’s lungs. Dragging his hand slowly from groin to thigh to groin again, teasing alternating pressures from too, too soft to painful grips, never lingering for long enough, setting a pace that was impossible to follow, he lead Roman to the edge of orgasm only to watch the distress and anguish flash across his pretty face when he pulled him back.

Time stood still for them as he repeated the process again and again. Each time, Roman’s grip on his wrist got a little tighter and the whimpers turned whispers turned pleas got louder and more demanding. He was pulling himself back together piece by piece as the pain and pleasure grew to blinding, indistinguishable heights. 

Victor’s own body begged for release, but he’d become adept at ignoring it, suspending his own satisfaction until the other’s had been met, and Roman wasn’t _quite_ there yet. They were making progress, but there was still more work to do. And Victor was nothing if not dedicated to his job.

“Turn around,” he ordered, not giving Roman a choice, hands already maneuvering the crime lord over, pressing his body into the mattress with Victor’s own. Roman struggled against the weight – a test that thrilled him to fail – pushing up into Victor’s body, desperate for them to be closer and farther at the same time.

“Shhh, let me take care of you.” He gathered Roman’s wrists in his hand and planted them firmly above his head. “Stay,” he ordered, nipping at the shell of his ear while simultaneously grinding against him. Roman tested the grip, temptation to be contrary too strong to resist, but stopped as soon as Victor rose to his knees, severing their contact at all points but their hands.

“Are you going to be good for me?” He made sure to let his lips brush against Roman’s skin as he spoke, sending shivers up the man’s spine.

A nod, followed by a barely perceivable whimper.

“That’s right; you’re always good for me.”

He tested Roman’s resolve, pressing the wrists firm into the mattress once more before letting go completely. Patience definitely wasn’t his boss’s preferred virtue, but he _could_ possess it when he wanted.

Victor made him wait until he was practically panting in anticipation, perspiration starting to gather at the dip of his back, a slight tremor wracking his entire body. He liked Roman this way: desperate and unravelling beneath him. He would never betray his master, of that he was certain, but there were moments – like this one – where he would let himself indulge in the thought of taking him apart with a knife instead of just his words. It wouldn’t be out of anger or hatred, or even the precious gift of freedom from this worthless world like it was for the others – no, Roman Sionis deserved more than a quick knife to the throat. He deserved to be a masterpiece – _as in life, so in death_. Victor would carve into his silken skin, blade tracing the pattern he drew with his tongue, down the knobs of his spine, shining with spit and sweat and sweet, sweet blood. Roman’s screams would fill his ears until it became too much for him to bare, until his voice broke into sobs and sighs the way he did when Victor pushed him to his breaking point and pulled him back before he could make his blissful descent. He would make sure Roman’s last breath was one of ecstasy.

The fantasy consumed him in moments like this. Pushed him to bite just a little bit harder, dig his nails in just a little bit deeper, just to watch the red blossom on skin as the blood rushed to the sensitive surface. He would mark Roman like this every day if he could – _permanently, if he could –_ but it was only on the worst days that it was tolerated, so he savored it when he got the chance.

He spoke his thoughts aloud to Roman, narrating his violent debauchery while his partner writhed beneath him, gasping, and pressing up into every touch, begging for more.

He stripped Roman of his pants, exposing a landscape of unmarred skin to run his scarred hands across.

“So perfect. Too perfect. A few scars would do you good, don’t you think?” Victor slid his hands down the toned thighs until he could grip Roman under his knees and push – spreading him out against the bed sheets. He paused to remove his own shirt, the atmosphere growing too heated to tolerate it, and reached into his pocket for one of the knives he always kept close. “Here,” he ran the cold, blunt edge of a knife up Roman’s Achilles tendon. The body beneath him tensed, but didn’t dare move lest it be cut for real. “Or here?” he moved to the inside of Roman’s thigh, muscles trembling under the sensitive skin there. _Oh if only he could cut for real…_

“Maybe here, where no one but me would see. Would you like that?” he traced the curve of Roman’s ass, careful not to get too carried away by the sight of steel on skin. He quietly reached for the bottle of lube he knew was tossed carelessly under the bed. He warmed the liquid in his hand before pressing the knife down hard enough to hurt without breaking the skin. He took his time, carving out his name slow enough to make sure Roman knew exactly what he was spelling out. Every swipe of the knife’s dull edge was followed by a drip of warm fluid, making it easy to imagine the way the blood would pebble up and slide down Roman’s body. Victor wondered idly if they could find red lube to add to the fantasy.

“You would bleed so beautifully for me, baby.” He could see it perfectly, the way he’d open Roman up with his mouth and Roman’s own blood; he would taste exquisite. Victor’s mouth watered, unable to resist the feast laid out before him. He licked broad swipes over the soft, yielding flesh, ripping the most enticing sounds he’d ever heard from Roman’s lungs.

“You’d let me fuck you while I cut you up, wouldn’t you?” He was breathless at the thought, and the way Roman squirmed and moaned told Victor he wasn’t opposed to the idea either. They’d done it the other way around plenty of times – every new tally mark earned by a kill for the crime lord was an opportunity to indulge – but he’d never actually sliced into _Roman’s_ luxurious skin; wouldn’t _dare_ disfigure without permission, and Roman wasn’t likely to ever give it. Still, he could _imagine,_ and he could always find satisfaction in temporary damage _._

The burn of his short beard left Roman’s skin bright red – but not red enough. The sound of palm striking skin rang loud in the nearly silent room, followed by a long, deep groan. His hand left a pretty blush, but his belt would do better. He hastily unbuckled and pulled the strip of leather from his belt loops, freeing himself of the rest of his own clothing quickly, eager to leave more lasting marks on the body beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous. You should see yourself like this,” Victor growled, pushing a calloused finger roughly into Roman’s spit-slicked hole. He gave Roman barely a breath to adjust before setting a punishing pace – waiting until he was used to the new sensation before adding to the stimulation with another finger and a strike from his belt. The already pink skin immediately lighting up red underneath the leather.

“Perfect,” he praised, pushing hard against Roman’s prostate with the pads of the fingers still inside him. “Beautiful.”

It only took a few more slaps of his belt and flattering words from Victor for the other’s resolve to crack, hands breaking their invisible bonds and moving straight to his cock.

Victor couldn’t allow that.

A disappointed whine filled the air as he removed his fingers abruptly.

“You promised to be good for me,” Victor growled, yanking Roman up on his knees, back pressed hot and sticky against his front, Victor’s hand squeezing a warning around his throat. “Don’t you trust me to take care of you? Have I ever left you unsatisfied?” His own cock throbbed, pressed hard against Roman’s ass. It took all of his calculated control not to give in to the desire to thrust forward. He had to wait.

Roman spoke, his voice raw and wrecked and indecipherable as he desperately tried to get Victor’s hand on him.

“What was that, sweetheart?” 

“Not. Satisfied. Now.” Roman gritted out, pushing harder against the light grip around his neck. Victor huffed a breathless laugh and tightened his fingers, biting at his boss’s shoulder and pinching a pert nipple as Roman twitched against him.

 _Fuck_ it was too good, having Roman at his mercy like this. He was so close to getting the ruthless crime lord back from the darkness that took him away on these worst days – and _Jesus_ a Roman Sionis in control was an erotic force like no other – but he couldn’t lie; taking the reins every once in a while, being in charge of every sensation, pain or pleasure, that Roman received? It was intoxicating. 

“This what you want?” He asked, reaching between them and letting the head of his cock catch on the desperate hole begging for him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” came the hoarse chant as Victor slowly pushed inside and set up an agonizingly slow pace. The silken heat swallowed him greedily, the other man trying futilely to speed things up and find his satisfaction through force.

“Please… I need…”

“What do you need, baby? Ask me and I’ll give it to you. You know that anything you want, you have it. I’d burn this city to the ground for you; deliver the face of every one of your enemies on a silver fucking platter; you deserve it all.” Victor’s voice was firm, but his movements stayed slow and steady.

“I _need_ you to stop being so goddamn romantic and _fuck me_!” Roman demanded, digging his nails into the other’s flank as he desperately tried to take what he wanted.

Victor laughed and gave in to the demands, roughly shoving Roman’s chest to the mattress and slamming back into him hard enough to make the bedframe clatter against the wall. The responding moan was loud and filthy and just what he was waiting to hear. This was Roman coming back to himself – taking what he wanted and reveling in the pleasure of it – and it was beautiful. These days were never supposed to be about his own pleasure, but _god_ did it feel good to spend the morning turning Roman from some passive thing to be worshiped into a greedy, pushy, hedonistic mess that begged for Victor with his body as much as his mouth.

And Victor could never deny him anything when he begged.


End file.
